


I Slithered Here From Eden

by pocketclocked



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angel!Matt, Basically what would happen if Aziraphale and Crowley started a law firm together, Demon!Foggy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketclocked/pseuds/pocketclocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Just to Sit Outside Your Door)</p>
<p>Foggy had a soft spot for musicals and cheese-flavored snacks, and was, quite possibly, one of the worst demons that Hell had ever spat out. And Matt… well. </p>
<p>Matt was one of those Avenging Angel types, and he was <i>really</i> good at his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Slithered Here From Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the irony.
> 
> [Fic title taken from Hozier's "From Eden"]

Matt had been the one to insist that they actually _go_ to law school. Foggy was pretty sure he could have gotten them certified online in a half hour, no questions asked. He was handy that way.

“That's if we even _need_ certification at all, Matty. Let's be honest, we've got a few centuries' more knowledge than those goons when it comes to the legal system.”

But Matt had worn that kicked puppy expression—and damnit, Foggy may have been a demon, but he loved... _puppies_ and didn't like seeing them look kicked—so. Even though Foggy was pretty sure that Matt just liked academia, they went back to college.

Again. (It was their fifth time.)

It wasn't all bad. Matt got his wish to be a giant nerd, and Foggy got plenty of chances to mess with the co-eds in their dorm. ( _That_ had been a pleasant surprise when they'd arrived, and Foggy had burst through their door sometime later with the news that “They actually let males and females room on the _same floor_ now, Matt, it's like I'm barely even needed here.”) Plus, being several thousand years old meant that he never had to study.

Besides, being a college student again was… nice. Foggy was horrendously lazy when it came to his job, but taking a break every once and a while to do something _mortal_ was refreshing. And he could chalk it up to “research” if his superiors asked.

“It’s not even so much about the evil stuff,” Foggy admitted one night after a few too many beers. He’d had a pretty productive day of slowing down the school’s servers while students were trying to schedule for the next semester, so he was feeling pretty good about himself. Which meant, of course, complaining about the nature of his work. “Really, I think they just like chaos. Sure, evil’s good, too, but it’s so _hard_ to be creative with evil nowadays.”

Matt hummed something absent in reply. His inattention did nothing to deter Foggy's monologue.

“I mean, _could_ I arrange for something tragic to happen to our dorm? _Probably_.” He shrugged at Matt's grunt of displeasure. “But that doesn't mean I _want_ to, Matty, you know that. Besides, Emily's got a midterm tomorrow,” he muttered, petulant. Deeds of tragedy and evil could always wait until after midterms, which were tragic and evil enough.

“Ah, Foggy, would you mind—?” Matt gestured at his laptop.

“Hm? Oh, sure thing, buddy.” Foggy waved his hand, and somewhere in the dark bowels of campus, the servers hummed to life, baffling the techs who had been working on them.

There was a pause, and Matt typed away on his laptop. After a moment, he shut it up. “Okay, all good, thanks.”

Foggy waved his hand again. Next door, there was a frustrated shriek of someone who had just reached the end of their rope, and Foggy basked in the sense of a job well done.

“You’re getting maudlin,” Matt commented, moving to sit next to him. Foggy frowned.

“I am _not_. Maudlin is for little old ladies and reclusive, authorial types.” He didn't turn to look at Matt, because he knew he was giving him a _look_. How Matt managed to give him _looks_ when he couldn’t actually see, Foggy would never know. _Angels_. He sighed, resigned. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s just that I feel under-appreciated.”

Matt hummed thoughtfully and appeared to contemplate Foggy's eyebrow. “Under-appreciated, or dissatisfied with the job requirements?”

“...Maybe both,” Foggy muttered, after a pause. It wasn't really a secret between them, Foggy's general aversion to the darker aspects of his work, but the mutinous part of him hated admitting Matt was right about these things.

“You really are a terrible demon,” Matt laughed softly. Foggy couldn’t help but smile, knocking their shoulders together.

“Yeah, I guess.” He took a sip of beer. “You’re too much of a good influence. Gonna get me fired one day—and I hope you know that that involves _actual fire_.”

Matt’s smile was fond and made Foggy’s little demon heart skip a beat. “You could always come work for us.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like it works like that.”

–

They'd met sometime in the Dark Ages. If Foggy was honest with himself, he'd been slacking off then. Though, in his defense, there was already a lot of opportunity for chaos and corruption, without demonic interference. Mostly he just sat on the sidelines and tried not to get too obviously grossed out by the Black Death. (Most demons lacked finesse, and Foggy had never cared much for epidemics to begin with because blood and vomit and puss… _ew_.)

Then he'd bumped into Matt.

Foggy had met a lot of angels before—it happened in his line of work. In his experience, they were stuffy, uptight, and rather intent on smiting him. He was pretty tolerant of all but the smiting, and even that he could sort of forgive since it was in the job description. But even if dying didn't really _hurt_ , per se, regenerating another body took a lot of time that, frankly, he didn't want to spend waiting around in hell. They always asked a lot of questions down there and seemed disappointed in Foggy's lack of progress. (It wasn't _his_ fault that his superiors lacked innovation and failed to see his accomplishments as _progress_.)

In general, Foggy avoided angels.

Matt was neither stuffy nor uptight, though Foggy didn't find this out until later since, initially, Matt _was_ rather intent on smiting him. With his fists, which was _weird_ , since most favored flaming swords and such. (And they insisted _demons_ were showy.)

The other weird thing was that he was definitely blind. Not unheard of, but definitely uncommon since the people Upstairs had a thing for physical perfection when it came to their agents. Apparently demons had a pretty distinctive smell, though, since the angel had whirled around to face him even in a crowded alley. Foggy liked crowds—he generally found them to be excellent camouflage when avoiding specific, high-minded individuals.

Unfortunately, a demon in a crowd full of unwashed city-dwellers was easier to pick out than he thought. Foggy had booked it, which turned out to be the _wrong_ choice.

The angel cornered him in a less-populated alley, and nailed him in the solar plexus with a well-aimed punch. Foggy barely dodged out of the way of the second hit, hands up in surrender and wheezing, “Whoa, whoa! Hold on, buddy!” And the angel had paused just long enough—head cocked like he was listening to something Foggy couldn't hear—that Foggy had vanished in a cloud of smoke.

They met again sometime later, at an opera. Foggy liked operas. In fact, Foggy was starting to realize that he liked people, even with their occasional penchant for do-goodery. (Which, maybe he was starting to root for, but like. Secretly.)

Matt also apparently liked operas. Foggy found this out when he was lurking on one of the unoccupied balconies and was thrown unceremoniously into the adjoining hallway.

“What the actual hell, man?” he yelped once he saw his attacker. “Can't a guy enjoy an opera in peace?”

The angel tipped his head to the side again, sort of like a confused bird. Foggy resisted the urge to laugh because one fist was still twisted up in his suit and the other was hovering near his jaw. “You're… here for the opera?”

Foggy snorted, but it stuttered off into a cough when the angel shook him. “Uh, yeah? Why else would I be here?”

Frowning, like Foggy was an idiot for not having considered the alternatives, the angel loosened his grip a bit. “Burning down the opera house? Spreading influenza? Assassination of public officials?”

“Um.” Foggy swallowed and eyed the angel's other fist. “Are you sure we're not working for the wrong sides here?”

The angel let go and took a step back, looking baffled. Foggy assumed baffled, since his eyes were covered by dark-tinted glasses and which made it sort of hard to tell, but his eyebrows were pinched together and he was frowning even more. It was… kind of cute. “You're really just here… for the opera?” He didn't sound remotely convinced.

Tugging at his jacket to smooth it into place, Foggy sighed. “Really just here for the opera.”

The angel frowned a little more, and then looked pensive. “You- you're not very good at this, are you?” He murmured, almost to himself. Foggy offered a weak grin.

“Not really, no.” He cleared his throat and held out a hand. “I'm—uh, most people call me Foggy.” His other name was very hard to pronounce and was usually only used for soul-binding contracts these days.

The angel looked puzzled, then finally smiled and took it. “Matthew.”

–

If Hell ever needed mortal representation in court, it would be by Landman and Zack. In fact, Foggy was pretty sure that was already the case (ha _ha_ , and who said his sense of humor was bad, _Matt_ ). The firm was inhabited by some of the most cut-throat human beings Foggy had ever met, which was truly saying something.

It almost felt like home, and it was _incredibly uncomfortable_. Foggy didn't go home much.

And if interning there made _him_ feel awkward, it had to be killing Matt. The only thing keeping just about the entire firm from righteous, heavenly justice was the fact that everything they were doing was very much legal. Foggy made sure of that. He was very good at his job.

A little too good, actually. Needless to say, his people Downstairs were pleased with this particular situation. Having an agent in a prestigious New York firm was incredibly helpful to the denizens of Hell. This made Foggy nervous, as he always strove to attract as little attention to himself as possible. He was pretty sure Hell as a whole would be immensely disappointed to find out that Foggy had been hanging around an angel for the last few centuries.

So he made the cursory arguments when Matt suggested they leave, but it was never really a question. Foggy packed his box of bagels, and, for good measure, added a few extra zeroes to their final paychecks. He had to save face _somehow_ , greed was greed, and his superiors were never really picky about who was stolen from, as long as it wasn’t Them.

He wasn’t quite sure he could explain away opening up a _firm_ with an angel, but Matt had looked so earnest, and Foggy hadn’t been able to say no to him for about two hundred years. Foggy trusted Matt, which was dangerous, and would probably follow him to the ends of the earth, which was deadly.

–

Foggy didn't care much for bloodshed. He had a weak stomach for maiming and torture. In fact, he'd probably still be Downstairs cleaning blood and piss off the floors if his superiors hadn't noticed that he was really good with words and contracts. (At one point he had a whole village's worth of firstborn sons promised to him for odd favors.) Being a field agent had worked out well for everyone.

Foggy never bothered with inter-dimensional travel or summoning the lesser demons of hell, when he could help it. It drained his reserves and made him feel all weak and shaky, and the scorch marks were hell to get out of the woodwork. Plus, Matt complained about the smell. (“It smells like fire and brimstone.” “That's because it _is_ , Matt.”) Instead, he communicated mainly via email, which his superiors were surprisingly up to speed with.

Foggy had a soft spot for musicals and cheese-flavored snacks, and was, quite possibly, one of the worst demons that Hell had ever spat out. Laziness was a sin, sure, but one that demons didn't generally embody when it came to work. They were zealous in that aspect. While his coworkers orchestrated wars and assassinations, Foggy took pleasure in the subtle accomplishments, like drawstring blinds and GMO propaganda. Minor chaos. The little things. And Matt… well.

Matt was one of those Avenging Angel types, and he was _really_ good at his job. A little _too_ good, sometimes. He handled it a lot like school, which was to say, he always did the extra credit assignments without needing to be asked. Foggy was pretty sure that the only reason no one Upstairs had stepped in so far was because Matt was _really_ careful and really, _really_ smart.

He'd asked once, sometime during the seventeenth century, about how Matt lost his sight. “Justice is blind,” Matt had replied, like it was that simple, and the sharp grin that had accompanied it had made even Foggy shiver a bit.

He'd asked _once_.

–

Their first official case was, Foggy might admit when asked under pressure, a bit rocky.

“So… how long have you two been practicing law?”

“Officially?” Matt angled his head toward Foggy. “What time is it?”

He raised one eyebrow and glanced at his watch. “Half past 12 am.”

“About seven hours.” Matt smiled and folded his hands together. Foggy tried not to roll his eyes. There _was_ such a thing as too much honesty, and Matt embodied it. Ugh, a _ngels_.

Karen's face went carefully blank, like she wasn't sure whether to cry or strangle them with their ties. Hoping to avoid another murder scene, Foggy cleared his throat.

“Don't let that fool you, though. We're very experienced.” He elbowed Matt lightly.

Experienced enough to know when Karen was lying about having the file, though that part was due mostly to the fact that Matt could hear heartbeats. (“One of the benefits of hunting demons and criminals for a living,” Matt had explained once, when Foggy was trying not to panic about all the lies he'd ever told Matt. He should have known. _Angels_.) Also experienced enough to intercept the hit man that was sent after her, and Foggy had teased Matt about being a Guardian Angel for weeks.

(He'd also personally escorted the bastard to hell after he hung himself in his cell. Foggy may have “accidentally” shoved him in the Styx. Whoops.)

On the upside, it got them Karen—who, Foggy was convinced, was one of Hell's Kitchen's most badass—for a secretary. This was both good and bad. Good, because Karen was brilliant, and sociable in a way that Matt and Foggy were sometimes lacking. Also because she was fluent with the printer/copier from the 70's that even Foggy couldn't get working. But it was also bad, mostly due to the aforementioned brilliance.

Karen was definitely onto them, but was also clever enough not to ask any direct questions. Truth be told, Matt and Foggy were perhaps not the most self-aware supernatural beings in existence, and sometimes forgot that present company now included mortals who were impressionable and squishy. Karen caught on rather quickly, and acted accordingly.

Foggy had a laugh the time she lined their doorway with salt, and was secretly thankful she hadn't tried holy water. It had been a little awkward the time she'd hung a horseshoe over the door, but Matt had been kind enough to knock it down for him. He nearly told her the truth, except that that would have broken half a dozen rules and earned him six months' Downtime.

Otherwise, their practice worked out nicely, balanced so that they both flew under the radar. Matt picked innocent clients who normally wouldn't have stood a chance in the legal system; Foggy insisted that actually just _being_ a lawyer would probably satisfy some of his evil-quota for the century. The American legal system was a mess of flawed loop-holes and vague wording, so it was never really clear to anyone whom it benefited. Foggy claimed that it was one of his side's greatest accomplishments.

–

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt groaned when the demon popped into being in Matt's living room. “You know I hate when you do that. Can't you just walk?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll open a window—but listen.” He waved the morning paper at Matt. “Did you know they're _actually_ calling you the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?” He dissolved into a fit of laughter. “The irony is priceless.”

Matt grinned slyly, appeased. “Really?” Like he didn't already _know_ , the brat. He poured them both coffee as Foggy—dutifully—opened one of the giant windows, then came to sit down. “What else does it say?”

“That pride is a sin, Murdock,” Foggy reminded helpfully, laughing when Matt waved him off. “Um, let's see… not much, honestly. Looks like they still don't know whose side you're on.”

Matt shrugged. “It might be easier if they don't. But they'll catch on soon enough.” He looked very innocuous, with his straight tie and easy smile. Foggy watched him for a moment, comparing this man to the one who went out at night and hunted demons and criminals with cold efficiency.

He still wondered, sometimes, if they were on the wrong sides.

“Countless centuries of vigilantism, and they finally catch you,” he finally sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. Honestly, he didn't know how to feel about it. They'd come to their truce so early that Foggy occasionally forgot that Matt was supposed to kill him. And really, Matt was doing his job, just with a little more exuberance. But if the human papers were printing stories about Matt, it was pretty hard for the people Upstairs to ignore. At the very least, it meant an investigation into Matt's work. At worst…

He took another sip of coffee. “Gotta be careful, Matty.”

Matt's grin was dangerous. “I always am.”

–

Fisk was not the first slumlord to employ demons, nor, Foggy was certain, would he be the last. He probably couldn't even be considered the worst.

Currently, however, he was the most inconvenient and _annoying_. Technically Nobu was sort of an independent agent, sent by Hell to “stir things up a bit;” but he'd made his alliance with Fisk clear enough and besides, Foggy had never really liked him. He especially didn't like him _now_ , when he had cut Matt almost to ribbons.

At least, he mused, seeing some brutal cuts and bruises on the other demon, Matt had done a number on him before Foggy got here.

“Ssstand aside, _Nelson_ ,” the demon hissed, mocking. Screw him, Foggy _liked_ his mortal name. “This angel has been interfering with our plans.” He cocked his head, then smiled slowly. It wasn't a nice smile. “Or should I tell our Father that you've gone rogue?”

“Fuck off, Nobu,” Foggy snarled, but it was all the confirmation the other demon needed. He tensed when Nobu began swinging the chain in his grip back and forth, winding up.

Foggy did not like violence, but he also wasn't stupid. Even the most devoted demons didn't trust each other. Slowly, he pulled out a pocket knife and flicked open the blade.

Nobu's cruel grin grew wider. “You think you can hurt me with _that_? You're more of an idiot than I thought.” He threw his blade and Foggy winced as it dug deep into his arm, but it was more meant to hurt angels, not other demons and would heal quickly. Nobu moved forward, overconfident, and Foggy struck out with his knife, stabbing deep into Nobu's side.

“Wha-” Nobu coughed, shock evident on his face. The blade shimmered briefly, carefully carved runes popping to life with a hiss like hot oil. Foggy grabbed the handle—safe, worn holly, pale white like a bone.

“Hail Satan, asshole,” he growled, twisting. Nobu shrieked, then exploded into many small, fiery pieces. Very carefully, without touching the blade, Foggy folded up the pocket knife and put it back in his pocket. Then he gathered up Matt and vanished with a bang, reappearing in Matt's apartment several miles away.

Matt could bitch about his scorched wood floors and the brimstone smell all he wanted, assuming he healed. Foggy wasn't positive how long it would take for Matt to come back if he died, but he was sure that he didn't want to have to explain it to Karen. “Impromptu vacation” really wasn't Matt's style. Unfortunately, Foggy's skill-set really only lent itself well to making things bleed _more_ , and he resolved to take a first-aid class as soon as possible.

Settling Matt on the couch, Foggy grabbed a towel and pressed it to the deep wound in Matt's side. He'd called Claire already, a wonderful woman who had once found Matt in a dumpster (sweet Lucifer) and didn't ask questions when he healed too quickly. Foggy was thinking of nominating her for sainthood, assuming he was allowed to participate in those nominations. Leaning over his trembling hands, he rested his head on Matt's chest and listened to his shallow breathing.

“C'mon, Matty, please don't die.” He tried to ignore the fact that he was _actually crying_ over an _angel_. If killing Nobu wasn't going to get him fired, this was. “Earth really sucks without you.”

And that was the terrible truth of it, that Foggy, a demonic field agent, had fallen in love with Enemy Number One, an angel whose job was to eradicate people like him. His grip on the towel tightened, and his head rose and fell with Matt's breathing.

He stayed like that until there was a knock on the door, and Claire's voice calling out to him, muffled. Reluctantly, he stood and let her in. Judging by Claire's look, he must have looked the sight.

“Jesus Christ, Foggy,” Claire murmured, ignoring Foggy's half-hearted “ _Language_ ,” and moving toward the couch with her bag. She removed the towel from Matt's side and hissed through her teeth. “Looks pretty bad, it'll definitely need stitches.”

Foggy was already pulling the needle and thread out, setting them carefully on the table for Claire. “But he'll heal, right?” He sounded too anxious, and Claire gave him a dry look.

“I don't know, you tell me.” Then, after after a moment, she said, “He'll be fine, Foggy. He always heals.”

He seized Matt's hand, holding tight. “Yeah. He does.”

–

Claire stitched and bandaged and finally declared that Matt would make it as long as he took it easy for a day or two. Foggy praised her in eight different languages until she finally shook her head, smiling, and saw herself out.

He ended up falling asleep pretty soon after that. Between healing the wound on his arm and teleporting several miles, he was beat. When he woke up, Matt was not-staring at the ceiling, and he looked miserable. Foggy probably would, too, if he had twenty seven stitches in his side and chest.

Matt must have heard him, because his head turned in Foggy's direction. “Foggy?”

“Yeah, Matty. I'm here.” That seemed to sooth the angel, whose eyes slipped closed.

“Nobu?” He groaned, sitting up.

“Killed him,” Foggy replied, voice tight. So far, no one had come back to correct Foggy for that, and he suspected it was because Nobu didn't want to admit that some lowly field agent had gotten the better of him. He didn't share that with Matt. Some emotion, one he wasn't used to, was bubbling up in his chest. “After he nearly killed you.”

“Foggy...” Matt murmured, sounding weary. Foggy cut him off with a sharp gesture, standing.

“No, just stop! Just—“ And suddenly Foggy was _furious_ , something he hadn't felt in a long time, at least toward Matt. “Can't you just be selfish, just for once in your—your _blessed_ _life_?”

On the couch, Matt's lips pressed into a thin line, stubborn and mutinous. “That's not how this works, and you know it.” His voice was low and tight, like he was winding up for another fight, and for once, Foggy was willing to give it to him.

“And what, you think your people are just going to ignore all of your—“ he gestured helplessly. “Extracurriculars? Or maybe the fact that you've spent the last century hanging around a _demon_?” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling jittery. “What do you think they'll do if they find _me_ , Matt?”

Matt's face was still pinched and angry, but his voice was pleading when he said, “This city _needs_ me, Foggy.” There were tears in his eyes.

“Well, I don't, not like this.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, then sucked in another breath. “All I ever needed was my friend.” But how could he have forgotten, that they were on two different sides of this… _thing_ , anyway? That they shouldn't even _be_ friends, much less anything more.

He grabbed his jacket and stalked to the door, ignoring Matt's soft “ _Foggy_ , wait,” and reaching hands. As a demon, he was sure he'd seen worse torture than a broken heart.

He just couldn't remember what it was.

–

If ever there was a woman that exhibited humanity's capacity for wickedness, it was Marci Stahl. “Foggy Nelson,” she drawled over the phone. “What, did you get tired of your boyfriend?”

“Matt's not my boyfriend,” he muttered, but it was half-hearted. They'd had this argument a lot, and Foggy usually ended up digging himself even deeper in the hole each time. Now he simply didn't want to talk about it. Or Matt. At all.

“Well, what _are_ you calling me for?” He could practically hear her smirk. “I seem to remember you telling me that I didn't have a soul last time we met.” This was a lie, as Foggy knew for a fact that she did. It was terrifyingly neutral. Marci had the instincts and emotions of a shark, and was equally dangerous. He had no doubt Hell would recruit her in a flaming-hot second.

Foggy sighed. “You want to go out for drinks?”

–

He spent a day holed up at Marci's until his self-loathing got the better of him and he meandered home. He couldn't bring himself to go into the office yet, which was pathetic, because it wasn't like this was the first fight they'd ever had. Instead, he moped around and tried to parse out his feelings, which was a decidedly un-demon like thing to do.

Anger, definitely. Towards Matt, and towards himself, because of how long he'd gotten involved with an _angel_ , of all things. Regret, yeah, probably. Miserable? Absolutely. Because it was just his luck that he'd fall in love with the idiot.

Mostly, he just felt guilty. He really hated feeling guilty. As a general rule, demons weren't supposed to feel guilty. They were supposed to revel in their evil deeds and unsavory accomplishments. But whenever he pictured Matt's face, blank eyes moving frantically as he reached for Foggy, his stomach twisted uncomfortably in a way that could only be guilt. How could he ask Matt to simply _stop_ being what he was?

He groaned and dialed Marci again. At least if they were going to do this, he was going to make sure they did it _right_.

–

Matt had a gym that he liked to hide out in when he was in a bad mood, and Foggy found him there a few days later, pounding the stuffing out of a sandbag. He must have heard Foggy come in, because his blows softened until he was really just leaning against it.

“What do you want, Foggy?” The demon flinched, because Matt's voice was hollow and weary, not warm like usual. He was reminded again that they were really supposed to be enemies, that they were supposed to be dispatching one another in grisly, righteous ways.

He swallowed that idea down. “I got a lead on Fisk. A legal one, I mean,” he muttered. Matt was turning, face puzzled. Foggy thought of their meeting in the opera house a few centuries ago, how he'd looked similar then. “I, uh. Got some files on him through Marci. Thought you and Karen might want to go over them with me?”

Matt was frowning, posture still tense and angry. “What do you _really_ want, Foggy?”

Foggy blessed under his breath, throwing his hands up. “I don't know, Matt!” He stalked around the gym, anxious, and stuffed his hands in his pockets so he could pretend they weren't trembling. “For things to go back to normal, I guess?”

“What?” Matt looked surprised and—Foggy's heart flip-flopped—a little hopeful. Then he curled back in on himself, sounding bitter when he said, “I thought we were done.”

Foggy laughed, trying not to sound hysterical and failing miserably. “I was being stupid. Look, Matty,” and the way Matt uncurled at that, leaning ever so slightly toward Foggy, made him pause in his pacing. He stared for a moment, then cleared his throat. “I know it's, you know, _weird_. That we're—friends.” He tried not to trip over the word, since he really wanted to say something else.

“But you're basically the only person who's been consistently around for the last few centuries, and you know I'm a terrible demon, and really bad at my job.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair and glancing back at Matt. There was an odd smile on the angel's face. “And I really like you, especially since you're the only angel I know who hasn't tried to kill me.” He paused. “Er. Sort of.”

That brought out a chuckle from Matt, who swiped half-heartedly at the sandbag. After a moment, he moved toward his bag, unraveling the wraps on his hands. He looked—shy, almost, as he put on his jacket. “So… these files?”

Foggy resisted the urge to jump into the air and/or fist-pump. Mostly. “ _Yes_ , the files. At the office. Also, maybe Chinese food?” He slung an arm around Matt, pleased that the angel didn't tense up or snap at him. Instead, he was smiling and looking a little dopey.

“Sure.”

–

Fisk was locked away, cases were picking back up, and Foggy was losing an argument. He thought that it was a fairly good sign that all was right in the world.

“Matt, I absolutely forbid you to go out in that. It's an embarrassment to the Forces of Evil everywhere.”

“Then I must be doing something right.” He cackled at Foggy's exasperated groan, because he was an asshole.

“It has _horns_ , Matt. And it's bright red. You look like a dork in it.” He was hoping an appeal to Matt's vanity would work. Judging by his shit-eating grin, it didn't.

“Foggy, I'm not gonna—“ Matt stiffened, snapping alert. That had Foggy straightening and looking around.

There were two men standing in the doorway of their office. No, not men—angels. Foggy could _smell_ the holier-than-thou attitude from across the room. His heartbeat sped up, and he saw Matt glance at him, worried, from the corner of his eye.

Matt stood up, moving just in front of Foggy, for which the demon was very grateful. He had no illusions about his ability to handle those two without running.

“What is it?”

“Out of the way, Murdock,” one of the angels grumbled. He was holding a staff made of wood, and Foggy eyed it nervously because that could _not_ bode well. “You know why we're here.”

Matt tensed, and his hands curled into fists. “That's unnecessary.” Foggy was pretty sure he knew what 'that' was, and he was really not keen on experiencing it.

“Matty,” he murmured, intending to say _let's get the Hell out of here, pun intended_ , but when Matt turned just slightly toward him, the other angel moved, swinging a mean left hook. Matt dodged, of course, but then the angel swung again, open palm falling hard on Matt's ear.

Matt howled in pain, buckling, and the angel kicked him square in the chest, knocking him over. Then they were moving toward Foggy, who was still staring, horrified, at Matt. He shook himself and backed up.

“Gentlemen.” It was a struggle to keep his voice even, and he held his hands up. Matt was coughing wetly on the floor. “Surely we can solve this non-violently? Aren't you guys supposed to be all about that?”

The two angels glanced at each other, then back at him, smiling at some inside joke. The one with the staff tapped it absently on the floor. They looked like practiced a policy of violence. Regularly. Foggy was sure he had met nicer hit men. Then it occurred to him that they _were_ hit men.

Matt groaned, rolling onto his back. “Foggy, get out of here.”

“I'm not leaving you, buddy,” he hissed, glancing down, and the angel darted forward, bring the staff up to crack against Foggy's ribs. It was apparently made of rowan, or blessed by the Pope, or _something_ , since it also _burned_ when it touched him. Foggy gasped, rolling away and curling inward, a long stripe of skin across his chest blistering.

“Leave him alone,” Matt was snarling, but there was a thump and another groan. Foggy could hear footsteps coming closer, and he dragged himself across the floor toward the window. There was a laugh behind him, and his stomach churned because _dear Satan_ they were _toying_ with him. At least most had the decency to get it done quick.

He turned and staggered to his feet, grabbing onto the drawstring blinds.

“Say hi to your boss for me,” he choked out. Then he sent a small prayer to, well, _someone_ , and tugged the blinds down. For once, they dropped without catching, and the runes he'd drawn on them flickered to life. Foggy didn't wait to see what they did, and moved to throw himself over Matt as the runes flared and the two angels shrieked in agony.

There was the sound of something popping, then silence. Foggy risked a glance up and let out the breath he'd been holding. Where the angels _had_ been was a lightly smoking ring and some scorch marks. If there was one thing about being a demon that Foggy embraced with passion, it was a strong sense of self-preservation. He didn't mess around when it came to home—or office—security.

Of course, there was the trick that you actually had to _see_ the runes for them to work. Foggy hadn't been able to risk Matt walking in and getting zapped by his window shades. It was a minor flaw in his defenses.

If he were honest with himself, Matt had been a flaw in his defenses for a few _centuries_.

Foggy groaned, pushing himself up on his hands and knees so that he wasn't crushing Matt, who seemed rather stunned. “You okay, Matty?”

“Foggy,” Matt breathed, sightless eyes focusing on him in a way that was still a little eerie and did funny things to Foggy's heart. Foggy swallowed, and hoped Matt wasn't listening that carefully, though his one ear was probably still healing.

“They're gone, um. I kind of,” he leaned back, which was kind of bad, since that meant he was straddling Matt's hips, but he was also babbling and couldn't stop. “Vaporized them? And I hope you're not mad that I did that, since they were angels, but they were trying to kill me, and maybe you? And I'm a demon, Matt, you really can't expect me to _not_ —“ He was cut off as Matt seized his tie and dragged him back down for a kiss, which. _Wow_.

For an angel, Matt had a sinful mouth.

Foggy told him as much when they came up for air, and Matt's grin was not remotely innocent. “Apparently you've been rubbing off on me.” And Foggy groaned, because that was not an okay thing to say when one of them was straddling the other, but then Matt's fingers were tugging at the buttons on his shirt and running over the half-healed burn on his ribs.

Foggy hissed, and Matt's expression darkened. “I'm glad you killed them.” At Foggy's noise of surprise, he shook his head. “They were sent to kill you since—” he swallowed, and suddenly looked sheepish. “Since I couldn't.”

“Couldn't,” Foggy said slowly. “Or wouldn't?”

Matt flushed, fingers moving swiftly over the blistered skin. “Couldn't.” Then he was pulling Foggy down for another kiss, which was both delightful and baffling until Matt murmured, “Damnit, Foggy, I've been in love with you since the sixteenth century.”

And Foggy couldn't really say much to that other than, “ _oh_.” So he stopped talking for a while.

Sometime later, Foggy rolled off of Matt, breathless and content, until he eyed the scorch marks on the floor. “Damn. How are we going to explain those to Karen?”

–

“We're not defending him, Foggy.”

“Oh, c'mon! So he's guilty of embezzlement. I mean, really, who isn't these days—“ he ignored Matt's pointed glare. “But he is also very wealthy, and that check has _a lot_ of zeroes on it.”

“No.” Matt's expression was mulish.

Foggy threw up his hands, exasperated. “Okay, but I helped a little old lady cross the street today,” he pointed out. “So I already did a Good Deed, which you totally owe me for.” He failed to mention that the “little old lady” was wanted in three states for bank robbery, and that “the street” was the Canadian Border. He was still a demon, after all. He had a job to do. And Dolores was an amazing woman who was just trying to pay for her grand-kids' educations, so he didn't even feel bad.

Matt frowned, like he knew there was _something_ off, but Foggy _technically_ wasn't lying. Metaphors were not lies. Not ones that Matt could sense, anyway, and he _probably_ wouldn't call Foggy on his bullshit in front of Karen. “We're still not defending him.”

Foggy groaned, looking at Karen for help. She waved him away, smirking. “No way, I'm just the secretary.”

“You're all a bunch of _saints_ ,” Foggy spat mutinously, stalking into his office. He ignored the snort of laughter behind him. “We're going to go broke!”

Neither the Forces of Good nor Evil had bothered them since Foggy had vaporized the two angels weeks ago, and that satisfied both of them immensely. In fact, superiors on both sides were being suspiciously quiet. Perhaps this should have concerned them, but for the moment, things were normal.

_Almost_ normal. Matt was leaning on the door of his office, grinning much too roguishly for an angel. Foggy would have liked to pretend that that didn't make his pulse stutter and jump, but Matt was an ass who apparently liked having that effect on him. “ _What_ ,” he snapped, leaning against his desk, but it came out more fond than anything.

Matt chuckled, pushing off the door and moving to sit across from Foggy. “We'll get by.”

“You said that when we left Landman and Zack,” Foggy reminded him, eyebrows raised. “And now we can't even afford air conditioning. I think it might be killing Karen. She's very delicate.”

Their secretary made a disbelieving and very _in_ delicate noise, grabbing her purse. “I'm going out for lunch. You lunatics want anything?”

“A client?” Foggy muttered, still feeling betrayed. Matt waved a hand, still smiling.

“We're good, thanks.”

Karen nodded and ducked out, closing the door behind her, and then Matt was nudging Foggy up against his desk, one leg pressing in between Foggy's. The demon choked. How did he _move_ that fast? He was about to ask, except that Matt was already palming him through his slacks, which—

Foggy moaned. “Oh my _Go_ —“

Matt cut him off with a not-appropriate-for-work kiss, muttering “ _Language_ ” as he drew Foggy's bottom lip between his teeth. Foggy replied intelligently with something like “buh,” hands fumbling for Matt's belt, and there went their lunch break.

_Almost_ normal. They were _both_ gonna get fired.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you spotted any errors throughout.


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